


Equites Auream

by ardett



Category: Christian Bible (New Testament), Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, Bad Ending, Biblical Reinterpretation, Blood, Child Abuse, Gen, Gore, Original Religion, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-19 10:46:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29873472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ardett/pseuds/ardett
Summary: When the four horsemen rise again, they rise in gold.
Kudos: 1





	1. I. Ichor

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this an eternity ago for the [MALAISE horror anthology](https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/321311124/malaise-a-horror-anthology) but it remains one of the favorite projects that I've worked on. It was really a privilege to work with such an amazing team.
> 
> Title translates to Golden Horsemen.
> 
> posted: March 6th, 2021

“Daisy, come inside,” Karen calls.

Daisy doesn’t move from her place under the backyard apple tree. The sweet scent of rotting fruit drifts down to her. “I don’t wanna go in yet.”

“You know we don’t stay out in the dark. Come inside.”

“Ma,” Daisy whines.

Karen glances to the cloudless noon sky.

“Now, Daisy.”

Daisy pouts and trudges towards the door. She scowls at the golden handprint dripping off the wood, lacquer glinting in the light. Her mother sighs as she closes the door behind them. Daisy doesn’t keep the sullen look from her face as she watches the backyard. Blade by blade, the grass darkens under the sun’s shadow. Daisy reaches over to undo the window latch before Karen grabs her hand.

“I know you don’t like being cooped up, but it’s just a few hours a month, and the rest of the time you get to be outside. That’s not so bad, is it?” Karen brushes over Daisy’s knuckles.

“But I can see! It’s not dark out!”

“It’s not about the dark. It’s about respect. You know that.”

Daisy groans. Her mother raises an eyebrow and doesn’t lower it until Daisy meets her gaze.

“We respect the Golden Goddess in this house. That’s why we have her warning on our door, and that’s why we don’t go outside under Man’s Shadow. Everyone deserves to be respected, right?”

“But we don’t believe in her. We’re not true followers.”

Karen blinks, almost flinches. “That’s not true, Daisy,” she says after a pause. “Who told you that?”

“Ty did.” Daisy pulls her hands away when Karen’s grip loosens. “He said that since we don’t go to church all the time and pay money, we’re not true followers like his family is. And that we deserve to be in Man’s Shadow.”

“Ty… He’s one of your friends from school? Is he the one that lives on Allsbrooke Street?”

“I guess. Can I watch TV?”

“Daisy.” Her mother gives her a stern look. “Just sit down—sit back down, Daisy—and we’re going to talk about what Ty said and what you should do when someone says something like that to you.”

Outside, the world is still. The branches of the decaying apple tree don’t sway in the breeze, not a bird flits across the sky. Daisy drags her gaze back to her mother and tries to look attentive.

“Ty, and I’m sure other kids in your grade, might look down on us, but everyone worships the Golden Goddess differently. We may not go to church every week and we may not pay the same tithe, but we respect the Goddess in this house. Make sure you tell your friends that. Just understand that for people who live on Allsbrooke Street like Ty, it’s very easy to give tithe.”

“‘Cause they have big houses.”

“Because they have more money to spare than the rest of us. You can remind Ty that we have a handprint on our door just like he does.”

“I don’t wanna go to church anyway.” Daisy crosses her arms but wilts under her mother’s pointed look.

“Don’t say that. This is why people don’t think we’re believers.”

“I don’t believe,” Daisy grumbles under her breath.

“What was that? Do we need to go over the coming of the Golden Goddess again?” Daisy doesn’t reply, only glares out the window, but her mother continues anyway. “About ten years ago, the world realized it was running out of gold. People were greedy, just like they still are today. That’s why we call the shortage of gold ‘Event Midas’: because people became as greedy as that old king. He wanted more gold too. He wished for everything he touched to be turned to gold. What could be bad about that?”

“I know the story, mama,” Daisy grouses.

“Then, why don’t you remind me how it goes?”

“He got his wish and everything he touched did turn to gold, including his food and his water. So he couldn’t eat or drink.”

“That’s right. Just like him, people looked for a way to create gold. When there wasn’t any to mine, scientists tried to turn sunlight into gold. And just like Midas, we had to be punished for our greed. So, the Golden Goddess took part of our sun away to remind us that something as precious as gold isn’t ours to make as we please. It’s something to be gifted to us by the Goddess. What else does the handprint mean, Daisy?”

Daisy thinks about the shining handprint on their door. She thinks about that mark’s twin, the handprint that blocks out part of the sun. She thinks about the shadow that runs its fingers over her backyard every month.

“The shadow is supposed to be all of our darkness and greed and bad stuff. Man’s Shadow. That’s why we’re not supposed to go out in the dark.”

“That’s right. We can’t forget religion like the people before us. We must listen to the Golden Goddess’ warning because next time the Goddess may not be so kind. Maybe next time she’ll take away our whole sun. That’s why we respect her. That’s why we don’t go out in the dark. Do you understand now?”

Daisy nods. The handprint on their door glows as sunlight hits it once again.

Daisy crouches behind the plastic walls of the playset during recess the next day. Behind her, Daisy hears Blair ask to use the slide. Someone whispers,  _ “Don’t talk to her,”  _ before running off. Daisy turns and sees Blair bite her lip, canines catching the light in an odd way, before she goes down the slide. Daisy returns to squinting at the crack between the wall and the playset supports. Through the narrow opening, she can see Ty talking to a couple of his friends. She strains to hear their conversation.

“So… finally met the altar boy, Pactolus… weird name, right?” Daisy catches at the end. Ty adjusts the collar of his button-up shirt.

“Wow, I can’t believe… see him at the altar… our age?”

“So what was he like?” the third boy interjects. Ty shushes him but he has the self-satisfied smirk Daisy has grown to hate. He leans closer to the other two boys and Daisy knows she’s out of luck.

She walks past them to hear more but shouts break out from the playset she just left. Before she can glance back, she locks eyes with Ty. He waves, gloating, painted nails glinting in the sun. Daisy doesn’t wave back.

“Ma, can I go ride my bike?”

“Just stay away from the river, okay? I heard things are being washed up after last week’s rain.”

Daisy’s eyes light up. “Like treasure?”

“No, like bones. Probably just stuff dogs buried, but don’t go down there, okay?” 

“Okay!” Daisy calls as she tugs on her shoes, rushing out to the road.

Daisy bikes for a few minutes before a street diverges from the main road. She can make out the name of the lane: Allsbrooke Street. Daisy pauses next to the street sign.

The closest house is almost twice the size of her own, a curved staircase and glittering chandelier visible through vast windows. Dripping off both double doors is a familiar golden handprint. There’s no way to tell which house is Ty’s. Not that Daisy had a plan even if she could tell which was his.

Daisy picks her feet back up and pushes on the pedals, making a half circle in the road to head back home.

“Daisy?”

Daisy tries to look over her shoulder but her core trembles, her front wheel jerks sideways, and she tumbles from her bike. Her knees hit the ground first and skid a few inches with her momentum. It takes a moment for her nerves to catch up with her scraped skin, and it’s not until she’s already trying to stand that there’s a stinging pain on her kneecaps. Reflex tears well up in her eyes.

“Are you okay?”

Daisy looks up as she dusts debris off herself. It’s Derec, one of Ty’s friends, and behind him is Ty himself, not looking particularly sorry. They must have been coming over the crest of the hill while Daisy was turning around.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Daisy mutters. “It wasn’t that bad of a fall. I fall a lot anyway.”

“It was kind of Ty’s fault for distracting you.” Derec nudges Ty with a laugh and Ty grimaces.

“Well most people don’t fall off their bike when they try to turn around, so it’s not really my fault,” Ty spits. “But sorry, I guess.”

“Whatever. I’m going home.” Daisy picks up her bike.

“But you’re totally bleeding. I mean, aren’t you?” Derec points to Daisy’s knees. There’s already a small stain on the fabric and Daisy pulls up the edge of her capris, revealing her scraped knee. An ooze of blood trails down her leg, glistening against her dark skin.

Daisy wipes up the trickle with her sleeve. “I’ll just get a bandaid at home.”

Ty recoils at the sight of her wound. “What—Why is your blood that color?”

“Gold?” Daisy picks out some of the rocks around the scrape and rolls up her other pant leg so the cloth doesn’t rub against the open skin. “I don’t know. It’s always been that way. Maybe I’m blessed by the Golden Goddess.” She grins at Ty’s scandalized expression.

“Don’t joke about that kind of stuff.” Ty grabs Derec’s arm and the other boy winces.

“Not so hard, Ty,” he murmurs.

Ty abruptly lets go, blinking. There are red spots on Derec’s flesh where Ty’s nails dug in. “We should go,” he finally says.

“Sure. See you at school, Daisy,” Derec manages. Ty whispers something to him as they leave.

Daisy is picking at one of her bandaids when her mother sits down across the table from her. “Leave the bandage alone, Daisy. That’s the only way it will heal.”

“But it itches!” 

Karen doesn’t reply. The radio buzzes in the background. “ _ Be vigilant for symptoms similar to sunstroke. While currently contained to Asia and Europe, this virus is highly contagious and deadly _ — _ ” _

Daisy glances up. There’s a letter in her mother’s hand. Through the thin paper, Daisy can see a golden hand embossed as the signature. “What’s that?”

“A letter from the church.” The paper wrinkles. “They’re… requesting a greater tithe.”

“What’s that mean? You have to pay them more money?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that this time.” Karen runs a hand through her hair. Her eyes land on Daisy’s bandaged knee and then dart away. “I’ll figure it out. Don’t worry about it, honey.” She gets up, still holding the letter, and walks into the office. The door clicks shut behind her.

Daisy looks down at her hand. She peeled her bandaid half off without realizing, exposing the wound. Her fingertips shimmer with a golden sheen.


	2. II. Holy Water

Pactolus wakes up with the sun. He curls into his blankets. As summer ticks away, the church’s stone walls become colder and colder.

He pushes himself out of bed, eyes drifting closed and then snapping back open. He ought to take a bath now, before Father Jayen comes to wash him. He makes his bed first, folding most of the sheets and throwing the stained ones in the hamper. He thought the marks from yesterday scabbed over but there are dots of red on the fitted sheet. He’ll have to get that washed as well.

He’s just finished stripping his bed when the priest walks in. Pactolus’ hands tighten on the sheets. “Good morning, Father Jayen.”

“Good morning, Pactolus. Are you ready to bathe?”

“I can do it myself. I was just about to.”

“Oh no, I’ll assist you. I’ll check your hand as well. It wouldn’t do for it to become infected.”

Something rigid creeps along Pactolus’ shoulders before they slump. “Alright.”

“Don’t mumble.”

“Yes, Father Jayen.”

Father Jayen draws the water for the bath. Pactolus doesn’t protest again when Father Jayen takes his clothes, only eases himself into the steaming water. He soaps himself down quickly as Father Jayen lathers shampoo into his hair. Once Pactolus washes off the last of the suds, Father Jayen holds out an expectant hand. “Let me see your palm.”

Pactolus lets Father Jayen take his wrist. He pats Pactolus’ hand dry and pulls it forward into better light.

“The older ones are healing nicely.” He runs a finger down the cuts lining Pactolus’ palm, tracing the parallel ridges. “We’ll have to start again on your other hand soon. Not tomorrow, of course. You remember that tomorrow is the day Man’s Shadow comes?”

“Yes, Father Jayen.”

“Very good. Let me disinfect the new ones.” Father Jayen takes a bottle from the shelf. Pactolus grits his teeth as the solution is poured over his palm. It stings in his cuts before dripping off into the tub. Tears bead in his eyes.

“Don’t cry,” Father Jayen admonishes. “Don’t waste your tears.”

“Sorry.”

“And don’t mumble.”

“Sorry, Father Jayen.”

Pactolus pads along the halls, following the priest. They go into a small room behind the church’s altar where other attendants and the reverend wait. The air in here is warmer, muggy with body heat. Someone brushes Pactolus’ pale curls from his forehead and guides him closer to the reverend.

“Good morning, Pactolus,” the reverend says. “Are you ready to begin?”

“Yes, Reverend Dion.”

The reverend takes a knife from the table. It’s ornate, made of some base metal covered in gold. Delicate designs are pressed into the flat of the blade and a sun is molded into the handle. Two attendants grasp glass vials in their hands. Father Jayen holds a bowl decorated with filigrees on the side. The edges are tarnished where the priest’s fingers rest.

Reverend Dion holds Pactolus’ hand loosely and turns his palm up. Pactolus looks away and catches his own eyes in the mirror. His pupils swallow the light in the room. His irises shine like gold disks. They water as Reverend Dion drags the knife across the top of his palm.

Someone presses a vial up to his cheek to catch the tears from his gold eyes. His blood drips scarlet into the bowl Father Jayen holds.

The reverend caresses the side of Pactolus’ face as he hands the blade to an attendant to wash, careful not to swipe away any tears. “Just as Dionysus allowed Midas to end his curse by washing off in the river Pactolus, so I shall use your gifts to purify those who follow the Golden Goddess. Thank you for your noble sacrifice, Pactolus.”

Pactolus can't nod while they're collecting his tears but he gives a short hum.

Father Jayen draws away and breathes a blessing over the collected red, too low to hear. The way the mirror reflects the scene, the liquid looks almost black.

When the last of his tears are swiped away, the blood cleaned from his palm, Pactolus is allowed to go back to his room to change. His role today, like most days, is a straightforward one. He’ll nod along to the reverend and the priest as they say the prayers. When they say his name, he will come forward and thank them for taking him in, for the blessing that’s been bestowed upon him, his golden eyes gifted from the Goddess.

And he’ll look away as Father Jayen passes out wafers dipped in wine that’s been mixed with drops of his blood. He’ll recite a passage as Reverend Dion brushes salty water over the palms of the followers in attendance that day. He will pray they too may gain a mark of the Goddess’ favor as he has, and their eyes will fix on his, their gazes somehow both pure and greedy at once.

When Pactolus looks out his window the next day, he can see the peek of darkness against the fiery ball of the sun. By noon, they’ll be under Man’s Shadow.

The sun climbs higher and the world grows darker as Pactolus waits in the back altar room. They left a bowl of fruit for him but it’s all browning and spotted. Through a stained glass square, he can see a palm, fingers, outlined against the light. Far on a distant hill, shadows crawl closer. Finally, Father Jayen comes to lead him out to the altar.

There are five families clustered in the front pews, all those who pay the greatest tithe. Pactolus recognizes most of them, except one boy. The mother and father are familiar, but for the first time, they've brought with them a son. He’s dark haired and dark eyed, sitting on the edge of the bench as his heel taps the floor. Father Jayen’s hand presses into Pactolus’ shoulder, pushing him towards the family.

“Pactolus, I want you to meet Ty. He’s the Price’s son. This is his first ceremony on a Dark Day.”

“Hello,” Pactolus utters.

Ty glances to his parents before coming back to Pactolus. “It’s… It’s an honor to meet you.” He holds out a hand.

Pactolus blinks at the outstretched limb, at its glittering nails. Father Jayen’s grip tightens and Pactolus takes Ty’s hand, scabbed palm rubbing against the other boy’s.

As they let go, Father Jayen smiles down at Ty and says, “This is a sacred ceremony, Ty. We’re so pleased you’re able to attend, by the will of the Golden Goddess. Her judgement will be fair when it comes.”

“Thank you, sir.” Ty folds his hands in his lap and behind him, his parents nod.

Pactolus follows Father Jayen back to the altar as Reverend Dion says, “This is the Goddess’ will. Her judgement arrives and we must be ready to meet it.”

Pactolus stands behind the podium, a book laid before him. Father Jayen stands close by. Squares of a watery color mark the floor as light shines in from the stained glass overhead. One by one, they go out. Everything darkens.

Pactolus takes in a breath and begins to recite the passage he learned. Warm fingers brush his robe off his shoulders, exposing his back. His voice doesn’t falter as he forces himself to relax the tension between his shoulder blades.

“...the Golden Goddess is merciful. She looks down upon our greed and she forgives us for it…” Father Jayen cuts into Pactolus’ flesh. The blade glides over clear skin and, despite Father Jayen’s practiced hand, it catches on knotted scars. “...gold is one of the purest substances in the world, but when we seek it, it taints us…” Sometimes when he’s alone, he’ll try to see what’s scrawled behind his ribs in his reflection, but the symbols are just as meaningless to him as all the others. “...we used to respect the gods, whether Greek or Roman or Christian or Hindu, but we lost our deference. We thought we were the gods…” Blood trails in rivulets down his back, staining the white cloth of the robe. Tears drip down his cheeks. “...we must give tithe to the church, for one day the Golden Goddess will look down upon us and it will be those who held onto their greed that— _Ah_ —” Pactolus inhales sharply as the blade drags over a knob of his spine. He meets Ty’s eyes, Ty’s wide, wide eyes. “I, uh…” Pactolus’ hands tighten on the podium. The rest of the passage slips away from him like water. 

Ty doesn’t look like he’s breathing until he swallows and Pactolus mirrors him, something choked sliding down his throat. Pactolus forces his gaze back to the book in front of him as Father Jayen breathes the next line against the back of his neck. Pactolus repeats it. The next string of words follows but Pactolus’ hands stay clenched on the podium, splinters digging into his fingertips.

The first hour ends, and so does the burn of the blade across Pactolus’ skin. Outside, solar flares dance around the edges of the sun’s golden handprint. The podium is moved to the side, and Pactolus sits on the tall stool brought out in its place. He glances at Ty, but the other boy’s eyes are tracing the drops of red on the floor.

“By the will of the Golden Goddess,” says Reverend Dion.

Ty’s gaze snaps back up.

“By the will of the Golden Goddess,” every member repeats, Ty a second behind the rest.

The reverend dips his hand into the bowl he holds. His skin comes away powdered and shimmering, even in the dim light. Pactolus loses sight of him as the reverend walks behind the stool but he feels the first touch against his cuts. The gold dust sinks into the wounds and Reverend Dion continues on, pressing powder into each mark. The only sounds are Pactolus’ delicate breaths and the soft shift of sand as Reverend Dion reaches for more.

“Don’t let any fall yet, Pactolus,” the reverend whispers. Pactolus nods and closes his stinging eyes.

Many minutes pass with only the dull ache of leaking blood and the sharper pain of pressure against open skin. The room grows warmer in increments as the darkest part of Man’s Shadow slinks away. Reverend Dion’s hands lift and do not return.

“Open your eyes, Pactolus.” 

Pactolus obeys. He blinks against the sudden brightness as sunlight once again falls through the stained glass and the golden hand is hidden behind the sun’s turn. His lashes are heavy with his tears. The taste of them as they slide to the corners of his mouth isn’t salty, but metallic.

Ty can’t seem to look away, and as Pactolus blinks again, another gold tear slips down his cheek.

Reverend Dion stands by the door as the last of Pactolus’ tears are stoppered away, giving each family a vial containing a single gold tear. Some of them put the vial in their purse. Others replace the glass chambers that hang around their necks.

Father Jayen pulls one of the attendants aside, giving him a stack of leaflets. Pactolus watches him leave. He doesn’t question where he goes.


	3. III. Cannibal

It’s dark outside. Not the typical kind of dark but the odd kind. The shadow kind. The kind that turns the sun to only a blotted dot of ink. Her parents have told her not to fear Man’s Shadow, but Blair has always been afraid of the dark.

Her parents pull into the apartment parking lot, filling the last spot. Every other family has been home behind drawn curtains for hours. Blair unlocks the door, the only one in the hall without a golden handprint dripping down its surface, and her parents sweep in. 

“We’re going out, sweetie. I think I’ll change, and then we’ll get something to eat,” Mary says as she goes into the bedroom.

“But mom, we’re still under Man’s Shadow,” Blair protests.

James ruffles her hair with a sigh. “We’ve talked about this, Blair. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Nothing is going to happen.”

“But no one else is out.” Blair follows her dad into the kitchen, grabbing an apple and continuing, “Everywhere is closed today. Except your job. How come you guys have to work?”

“Because the government doesn’t buy into this religious fervor,” James states. “People are scared of things they don’t understand. It’s easy for people to get caught up in all that fear and think that Event Midas was caused by divine intervention, but it’s just science we don’t understand yet.”

“Why do I have these then?” Blair bares her teeth in a mock grin. Her dad smiles back but his grin isn’t real either. His sharp teeth—the canines, he tells her—are pearly where Blair’s are gold.

“I’m not quite sure, but I can tell you it’s not the work of some goddess. Just science waiting to be explained,” James maintains. Blair sticks her tongue out and this time, her dad laughs for real. Blair giggles with him as her nails puncture the apple’s skin.

Blair gets to leave school early the next day after a fight on the playground. She describes the scene to Mary as they drive home, the bloody noses and broken bones. The violence had come from nowhere and swallowed five kids before the adults could wrestle them apart.

Mary shakes her head, muttering, “Sounds like a warzone.”

Blair nods.

Someone is standing in front of their door when they enter the apartment complex. The man holds leaflets and as they get closer, Blair catches a glimpse of a necklace peeking out of his shirt, shaped like a glass bottle. A drop of gold rests in the bottom.

“Excuse us,” Mary says as she reaches for the door, forcing the man to move aside. Blair doesn’t smile at him. She’s not supposed to smile at strangers.

“I’m actually looking for a specific family. Are you the Godfreys?” the man asks.

“I thought salesmen weren’t supposed to come into apartments,” Mary remarks. Her hand tightens on the doorknob.

“One of your neighbors buzzed me in. You see, I’m here on behalf of the church.”

“Which church?”

The man gives an annoyed half-laugh, half-huff. “There is only one church, Ma’am.”

“That’s what they all say.” Mary grins without mirth.

“The proof is right there in the sky. The Golden Goddess is the only true divinity.” Irritation mars the man’s face before he schools himself. “I came to offer your daughter a place in our church. We’ve heard Blair is… quite exceptional. Father Jayen would love to meet her.”

“Is this a conversion camp? Surely you have enough members already.” Mary’s eyes grow wary.

“We only hope to save all we can from the Last Judgement. She’s old enough to make her own choices. Don’t you think so, Blair?” The man holds out a pamphlet to her but Blair’s mother smacks it away.

“She’s nine. And I think she’s heard plenty.”

Mary drags Blair inside and slams the door shut, but through the crack, Blair hears the man say, “Everyone has to pay a tithe. The Goddess’ gaze may not have turned on you yet, but it will. You are not above her judgement.” The footsteps retreat.

Mary growls and begins to pace the room. She turns on the news and Blair leaves when headlines turn to a fatal disease in Asia. Blair means to do homework but instead, she thinks of pestilence eating through people’s skin and science and divine judgement.

On Friday, Blair is home alone. She wasn’t supposed to be, but Mary had hissed something into James’s ear, something that sounded like,  _ “The bones washing up in the rivers are human,”  _ and they had left Blair here. Not without apologies, but they still left. 

Blair’s on the couch when the lock clicks. Her head perks up, but it’s not her parents at the door.

Blair’s chest seizes as the space is invaded, the landlord gesturing in the churchman from the other day with key in hand. The man’s eyes land on her with a smile and Blair keeps looking for her parents behind him but they’re not there, where are they, why is he here instead? It’s fear that’s making her hyperventilate, Blair belatedly realizes. She doesn’t know why. Nothing bad has happened yet. There’s just someone in her  _ home _ who’s not supposed to be there. She doesn’t know she’s going to be sick until the man’s hand is on her shoulder and she throws up onto his shoes.

His smile devolves into a snarl and she’s being led away, off the couch and out the door, and she can’t speak past her heaving breaths but her wide eyes stick on the landlord who’s known her since she could barely walk. He just nods and soothes, “It will be okay, Blair. This is better for you in the long run. The Goddess knows what is best for all of us.” And he doesn’t stop them. And the neighbors don’t stop them. And Blair doesn’t stop them. And they are not stopped.

Blair has never been inside the church. Pactolus has never been outside the church. That's what he tells her, anyway.

They're in a stone room and the door is locked. There's gold everywhere, on the handprint on the door, in the threads of Pactolus' clothes. The window looks low enough to break but every time Blair thinks of shattering the glass, that’s as far as she gets. She can imagine it but her body doesn’t understand rebellion. It understands waiting in line and waiting with her hand raised and waiting for her parents to come home. It doesn’t try to break out. It only waits.

It waits, and it watches the boy before her.

He is terrifying. His eyes are a color Blair has never seen before. The gold in them isn’t the soft hue of most irises, but instead a flat, metallic kind of shine. It makes his pupils look like bottomless wells. But worst of all, he’s covered in scars and cuts and dried blood in the creases of his palm, and when she asks, “Who did that to you?” he only blinks and replies, “The Golden Goddess.”

It comes back to her then, her mother on the phone talking about church orphans and kidnapped children, papers her parents meant to put away with notes scratched in the margins about darkness and gold tears and lies and  _ blood.  _ This is him, she realizes. The boy who cries. The boy who bleeds.

“Will they do that to me?” she says suddenly into the silence, chewing on her finger.

“It’s not so bad. Maybe you could stay then.” He leans forward, eyes lit up as she speaks to him, but the door opens before he can say anything else. His excitement shutters away and Blair’s teeth leave imprints on her finger joint.

Another girl stomps in, bandaids on her knees, and sits in an available chair. Blair watches the door shut behind her.

The girl’s gaze jumps around the room before landing on Blair. “Oh, hey Blair. Are you here for the bible school thing too?” Blair shakes her head but Daisy has already turned to Pactolus. “We go to the same school. I’m Daisy. Where do you go? I feel like I’ve never seen you before. How old are you?”

“My name’s Pactolus. I—” The door opens again, a boy stumbling inside. Daisy groans. A shocked Pactolus breathes, “Ty Price?”

“Ty Price,” Daisy spits in agreement.

Blair recognizes him as part of a group she has never dared to touch. He’s a child from a golden blessed family, dripping wealth and faith. But as his nails dig into his palm, she thinks he might be the only one as scared as she is.


	4. IV. Chalice

“What did you think of the ceremony, Ty? It’s a glorious thing, isn’t it?” Gianna sighs breathlessly. Ty’s voice is locked in his throat.

He wanted it to be a glorious thing, but he still feels Pactolus’ eyes boring into his. Pactolus didn’t look afraid. He just  _ let them _ cut into his flesh. Ty has never seen someone bleed like that and just  _ stand there _ and  _ let  _ people make him bleed like that.  _ Let  _ them make him cry. Ty has never let anyone hurt him like that and Pactolus was hurting. It was so clear he was hurting. He was  _ crying. _ And now his tears are in a box in Ty’s pocket.

His first ceremony under Man’s Shadow was supposed to be glorious. He was supposed to be freed from mortal sin. His spirit was supposed to ascend to golden places. He was supposed to finally understand his parent’s infinite faith, finally understand why they were a superior, blessed family. But all he saw was another boy cry. And it was not a thing of glory.

At school the next day, Derec asks about the glass chamber around Ty’s neck. The other boy’s eyes brim with awe, only half understanding what the drop of gold inside means.

Something uneasy drips in the back of Ty’s mind but still he brags, “So I don’t know what you guys did inside all day, but I finally met the altar boy, Pactolus. What a weird name, right?” Ty tugs at his collar so the necklace rests more comfortably.

“Wow, I can’t believe you got to go. The church only invites a few families each time. I’ve only ever seen him at the altar from the back. Is it true that he’s really our age?” Derec’s voice is eager and Ben, Ty’s other friend, leans in.

“So what was he like?”

Ty grins as the power of a secret swells in him and gestures the other two closer. He’s about to talk about pain and cowardice and the way he shook the altar boy’s hand but then he hears Pactolus’ gasp echo in his ear as a knife carved over his spine. Their eyes met for only a second but those gold irises looked… lost. There was no Goddess peering out from those pupils. There was no Goddess preaching through him. Ty has never known a dread like that, like the paralyzing look in those metallic eyes.

“Well, let me tell about what the ceremony was like,” Ty says instead. Just as he begins, yells burst through the playground. Ty looks up as teachers run past them and meets Daisy’s narrowed eyes. He allows himself to gloat, giving her a mocking wave, because he knows that even if he doesn’t quite understand Pactolus, merely possessing a gold tear means he has the Goddess’ blessing.

Ty’s mom thinks that’s why his nails grow in gold. The Golden Goddess has chosen his family, just as Pactolus was chosen. Ty is destined for some greater purpose. Daisy is not, and eventually, all the frauds will be gone. And it will be soon.

He’s heard the reverent church sermons. There’s already death in the water.

_ Maybe I’m blessed by the Golden Goddess.  _ Ty mulls over Daisy’s words bitterly. It shouldn’t be this way. Her family makes none of the sacrifices to the Goddess that his does. He’s never seen them at a single service. The handprint on their door is dark with tarnish. There was no mistaking it though, the gold blood that dripped down Daisy’s leg.

His parents won’t give him a straight answer when he tells them. The dinner table discussion revolves around faith and respect and listening to the church. He should just trust in the church, in the Golden Goddess. Something in Ty can’t quite stomach that answer. He pokes at his food and glimpses white growth on the underside of the fruit. He pushes his plate away. His fingers graze his placemat, a world map in browns and dull greens. They trail over Europe, over the raised mountains in Asia.

Ty’s gaze drifts to the shelf on the far wall. It’s lined with months of glass vials. His family has never missed a tithe.

On Friday, both of Ty’s parents are home early. Gianna touches a hand to his cheek when he comes inside. “We have to talk, Ty.”

At first, Ty thinks he’s in trouble. He’s not supposed to talk about the Dark Day ceremony outside of church, even to his friends. Instead, his mom asks, “Do you know why we pay tithe?”

“To release ourselves from greed,” Ty repeats dutifully.

“That’s right. To hold onto wealth for ourselves, that would make us as bad as the sinners that brought down the Goddess’ wrath. The Goddess doesn’t ask for things without a reason.” George’s hands come down on Ty’s shoulders as Gianna continues, “We always knew you had a greater purpose.” She grabs his hands. “The church has asked for you as part of our tithe.”

“W—What?”

“They want to take you in, like Pactolus.” Her eyes are glowing with pride.

“Like Pactolus… But they hurt him.”

“Hurt him? Sweetie, it’s not really hurting him. It’s by the hand of the Golden Goddess. He is being bestowed with her blessing and then he passes that blessing onto us in return. Wouldn’t that be a wonderful thing to be a part of, Ty?”

Ty shakes his head. They’re going to give him away. He knows, has always known, that his parents put the church before everything else. Anyone else. Before him. But where he thought there would be anger, there is only a deep well of shock. 

He pulls his hands back. His mom lets him go and his dad’s grip falls from his shoulders. Their eyes follow him as he runs upstairs.

“Ty, it’s time to go.” George knocks on the bedroom door, pushing it open when Ty doesn’t answer. His eyes narrow as he sees Ty clutching a baseball bat. “Put that down.”

“No.” The word is barely audible. “I don’t want to go. You—you can’t just give me away.”

“You’re not going to hit me, Ty. I’m your father.” It’s George’s disappointed look that makes Ty drop the bat. Then it’s the pride, the same in his mom’s face as she told him the news, that makes Ty leave it on the floor. He loves his parents. Somewhere twisted in him, he still wants to make them proud.

Gianna sweeps into the room, pouting as her eyes land on Ty. “Oh, you can’t wear that.”

She moves in, kicking the bat to the side, and leads Ty to the closest. She grabs a tux from the back. “Put this on.”

Ty changes and when he comes out, Gianna coos, “You look beautiful.”

Ty looks at himself in the full-length mirror, the fitted tux, the gold tear still hanging around his neck, his golden nails that were supposed to be a blessing. Somehow, it’s this sight that finally brings forward the tears.

“Mom…” he tries, voice wavering, but Gianna only smiles back at his reflection.

“You look beautiful, honey.”

Father Jayen is waiting at the church entrance when the Price’s car pulls up. Ty almost begs his parents to take him home, please, please,  _ please, _ but he won’t. He has always been a proud child. His parents didn’t raise him to plead. He won’t do it in front of the priest. He only holds his head high and lets Father Jayen guide him inside.

Ty is the last to arrive in a group of familiar faces. There’s Daisy, who’s hate for him is obvious in the way she says his name. Blair, who Ty has always been told to stay away from. And Pactolus, with the cuts on his back hidden but the ones on his hands red and shiny and awful.

“What are you even doing here?” Daisy scoffs. “It’s not like you need to go to Bible school.”

“Bible what? Is that why you’re here?”

Daisy quirks an eyebrow. “Obviously. Part of my family’s tithe, or something.”

She picks at her bandaid and the realization hits Ty like a blow to the chest. He told his parents about Daisy. About her golden blood. Now they’re both here, with a boy with gold eyes. He brought her to this place, and he knows with a bone-deep certainty that the church lied to her family. His parents knew he was never coming back. She won’t either. None of them will.

“No, no…” Ty collapses into a chair. “My parents told me I was the tithe. We’re… We’re never going home.” His eyes snap up to Pactolus, who jolts. “How do they keep you here?”

“Keep me here? I don’t understand what you mean.” Pactolus’ gaze traces him as Ty stands up, pacing around the room. “Will you be staying with me?”

“Oh, sit down, Ty. You’re such a drama queen. Can’t you just—”

Ty whips around. “You don’t understand, Daisy. They’re keeping us here for something,  _ collecting us _ .” He hears Blair hyperventilating and he turns on her. “You must have it too. Something gold. What is it, Blair?”

“What is your problem _?  _ Back off, Ty!” Daisy is on her feet but not before Blair stammers something unintelligible and then pulls at the corner of her mouth. Her canine teeth glimmer a degree brighter than the rest.

Daisy pauses. “Wait, we all… Your nails aren’t painted that color?”

Ty shakes his head. Daisy tugs at her bandage to reveal the tiny ooze underneath. Pactolus looks ecstatic.

“Perhaps the church will house you like they do me. You will stay!”

The words  _ like they do me _ clang against Ty’s ribs. “No, no. We have to find a way out of here. We have to do it now.”

“Calm down, by the Goddess. Aren’t you supposed to like the church?”

Frustration bubbles up in Ty at Daisy’s nonchalance.

“You don’t know anything, Daisy. You don’t know what we do to him!” He points to Pactolus. Confusion passes over Pactolus’ face, as if he doesn’t remember what’s happened to him. No, it’s that he doesn’t think what’s done to him is a terrible, terrible thing. “They keep his blood and tears for the communion. They cut him up every day. The Dark Day ceremony is just us watching Pactolus get… We just watch him bleed. It’s…”

Surrounded by other devout followers, it all made sense. Now the thought of it swells in Ty’s throat. It’s barbaric, isn’t it?

Ty pulls his necklace out. Sunlight streams through the glass chamber, lighting upon the drop of gold in the bottom. “This is one of Pactolus’ tears. They give them to the families at the end of the ceremony, so we can carry the Goddess’ blessing.”

“That’s what you guys carry around?  _ His tears? _ ”

There is a heavy silence.

Pactolus finally breaks it. “So you wish to… run away? That would…” He clears his throat. “Wouldn’t that be against the Goddess’ wishes?”

“She’s probably not even real,” mutters Daisy.

“Forget whether she’s real or not.” Ty grabs a candlestick. “I’m not going to stay here to let them hurt me like they hurt you.”

Pactolus flinches. Ty turns away.

“Wait, Ty, you can’t—” Blair exclaims, the loudest she’s spoken yet, but Ty ignores her. He swings the candlestick into the window.

Blair screeches as Daisy curses. Pactolus scrambles out of his chair to get away from the shower of glass. Ty hoists himself onto the window ledge, ignoring the shards biting into his flesh. He lands on the ground outside and gestures to the others.

Pactolus sends one more look towards the door that leads back to the church. It’s hard to name the look in his eyes. But then his jaw tightens and he turns away. They follow.


	5. V. Transubstantiation

It’s wild luck that one of the houses near the church has an unlocked basement hatch. They slip in and hide for what seems like hours before Ty says they can come out. He takes on the role of leader, hushing them when there’s danger and scouting to the upper floors to steal granola bars and packets of candy and water bottles. He finds juice boxes, but the syrupy apple inside is too bitter for anyone to drink.

They’re like fugitives, Daisy insists. Runaways. Vigilantes, even.

Blair hates it down here, though. Not even Ty, in his suit jacket and slacks, seems bothered by the grime, the must, the cold. His hands are still flakey with blood from breaking the window. None of them have had the chance to wash anything. Daisy has her scraped knees, shiny golden scabs visible as her bandaids peel off. Blair hasn’t seen Pactolus’ worst wounds, only the texture of ridges through his thin shirt. She doesn’t want to see them. They must be awful.

The thought of those terrible bleeding cuts always distracts Blair from her loneliness. For a moment, it’s replaced with envy. She’ll start scratching at her wrists because they’re alone, trapped in this grimy, musty, cold basement and she’s the only one without… blood, god, she hates blood and she’ll always stop as soon as she starts, but being unblemished doesn’t just mean she hasn’t been hurt. It means the three of them are something and she is something else.

Then, on the second day, footfalls from above. Ty knows a moment before it happens, from the path the footsteps follow or the sound of the creaks or a child’s intuition.

“Hide. Hide!” he hisses. The frantic terror in his eyes reminds Blair that he’s seen what she hasn’t. He knows what he’s running from. But Blair doesn’t need proof to be afraid.

Daisy and Ty dart off to hide. Blair and Pactolus rush behind the freezer box. The door opens and the two of them duck down. Blair’s knees are cold, pressed against the rusting metal. Pactolus is squished into a space too small, too small for anyone. His hand is pressed over his mouth, his eyes squeezed shut.

Blair feels like she can’t get a breath in. The lights flicker on and gleam off Pactolus’ face, his wet cheeks. Seeing tears leak out of Pactolus ramps Blair’s fear up another ten degrees. What if she just came out, just asked the adult to help them? Because nothing could be worse than being curled up behind a freezer, having not eaten a good meal in two days, not having her parents or anyone like her at all.

The lid of the freezer flips opens and frosty air slips along Blair’s shoulders. Pactolus rocks as the lid is slammed shut, and in the slivers of those gold eyes, Blair sees the truth. He’s not like her. He’s not afraid. He’s in pain, like Blair has never been in pain. Blair’s brow furrows and then she sees the blood seeping along the sides of his torso.

A squeak strangles out of her and she scrambles away, out into the open floor of the basement. The door clicks shut and the lights go out.

A second too late, Blair croaks, “Help…”

She stares at the closed door and that rectangle of seeping light until Daisy’s hands are shaking her back into her nightmare.

“What were you doing, Blair?” Daisy’s as loud as she can be without being loud enough to finish Blair’s job. “You were… You were gonna snitch on us? You were just gonna tell?”

“It’s okay, Blair,” Ty begins.

“It’s  _ not _ okay,” Daisy hisses but she lets go of Blair.

“It’s okay,” Ty repeats. “Nothing happened. We’re still okay.” He nods to his own words until he seems to believe them. It’s not until he speaks again that Blair glimpses how shaken he is. “It will be so much worse if they catch us.” His eyes are empty when they meet hers. “Blair…”

“Pactolus is bleeding,” Blair whispers. Daisy’s gaze snaps up, then over to where Pactolus is still crouched. Ty pads over to him. The tension in Blair’s chest relaxes as eyes slide away from her.

“I’m fine,” Pactolus murmurs as Ty helps him up and towards the center of the basement. The usually pure gold of his irises looks clouded. He sways on his feet.

“We need to get help. Adult help,” Blair insists, wringing her hands.

“We can’t. We  _ really _ can’t, Blair. You just don’t understand.” There’s a faint growl in Ty’s voice. “Let’s just… Let’s just take a look.” 

Pactolus shakes his head as Ty goes for his t-shirt. He stumbles away, mumbling something Blair can’t hear. He bumps into Daisy, who insists, “Just let us see. Come on, Pac.”

Pactolus swallows, then hesitantly nods. His fingers shake at his collar before he tugs it over his head. There’s a wet sound as the bloody fabric unsticks from his skin. Blair’s gaze drifts lower, to the sprawl of Pactolus’ back, and she gags.

Cuts, reopened when Pactolus pressed into the concrete wall and now free of clotted blood and scabs, paint gashes along his shoulders. Every time Pactolus flexes, the skin stretches farther apart, splitting him open. The straight lines his dripping blood should be tracing down his back are interrupted by old, raised scars. Scarlet zigzags over the column of his spine.

“Oh god,” Blair moans. She turns away but not before she sees Daisy lean closer in morbid curiosity.

“What does it say? It’s not English,” Ty asks.

“Say?” Daisy chokes, finally recoiling. “You think they’re letters?” She takes another step away from Pactolus.

“I don’t know.” Pactolus twists his shirt in his hands. Blood drips onto the floor. “I can’t read.”

“You can’t read… at all?” Ty’s face screws up. “They never taught you?” Pactolus shakes his head.

“Why would I have to know how to?” Blair doesn’t look at Pactolus’ face as he asks. She thinks she can see bits of metal gleaming in his scars. They do look like words from here, straight and all evenly spaced and cuts upon cuts upon cuts.

“Everyone normal can read,” Daisy huffs and then freezes. It makes sick sense. It was never in the Golden Goddess’ plan to give Pactolus a normal life.

No one speaks. Pactolus bleeds and bleeds and bleeds.

They can’t clean Pactolus’ blood off the floor. There’s too much, pooling there like gaping pupils, and the rough concrete holds onto the stains. While Daisy and Ty scrounge together sheets for Pactolus to lay on, Blair goes to look for anything else they could use to keep the wounds clean. Then Blair steps in it. The blood.

It seeps through the bottom of her shoe and soaks through her sock, squishing between her toes. She tries to get it out that night but as she wrings out her sock, the red only gathers in her nails beds and drips onto her knee, and when she tries to rub it away, bloody fingerprints stain her thighs. Blair can smell the faint iron scent on her clothes.

She can’t leave it there, eating away at her flesh. She can’t leave it there, rusting along her bones. It’s tarnishing her. Corroding her.

When the sun comes up, she can see it even more, the red and orange and yellow, and she can’t take it. While the other three doze, Blair stumbles up the stairs until the door handle is pressing into her palm and she’s free.

The door clicks shut behind Blair as the beauty of the house arrests her. The tiled floors are cold and white, the only marks the red smudges Blair treks in. Everything glows with cleanliness, shining picture frames and clear vials with bits of glimmer lined above the sink. Blair feels disgustingly out of place.

If she could just wash her hands, all she wants to do is wash her hands. (Even if the rivers are filled with death, even if human bones drip into the sink—)

Blair trots into the kitchen and sticks her hands under the faucet. The water hisses through her fingers, flakes of blood turning to mud and finally slipping off in ribbons. She tries to use the soap but she leaves stains on the dispenser and she still has to wash out that red from her nail beds and she’s making everything dirtier and dirtier—

“Who are you?”

Blair whips around. A woman is standing at the base of the stairs. She looks like an ordinary woman, maybe a mother, with soft curves and beige nails. Blair feels the tension ease from her chest for the first time in days, and so she whispers, “Can you help us?”

Blair tells her everything.

It’s not until later when the woman tries to find Blair something to eat that Blair’s insides feel hollowed out, like she’s been struck with famine, like this was a mistake, as the woman keeps glancing towards the door like she’s waiting for someone, and the cabinets are empty, turning black with decay, and someone has come for them, someone in white and gold, and—

The sick she throws up smells like rotting apples.

There are no windows in the room. In the bowels of the church, there’s nothing but dirt floors, flickering light bulbs, and chains. They’re all shackled by the ankle to a bolt in the floor, each fastened a few feet apart. An empty bowl rests in the middle of their square.

“What are they going to do to us?” Blair whispers.

No one answers her. No one’s answered her the last five times. Daisy keeps tugging at her chain. Ty keeps digging at the bolt in the floor and keeps hitting cement. Pactolus keeps sitting curled up on the floor.

“What are they going to do to us?”

No one answers her.

“What are they going to do to us?”

“Shut up, Blair,” Daisy growls. “You sold us out.”

Pactolus frowns at Daisy as tears swell in Blair’s eyes. He turns to Blair, patting at her shoulder in a clumsy way.

“It’s okay,” he says, voice soft. “I didn’t really understand why we left either.”

Somehow, his words just make Blair cry harder.

They all linger in silence until Reverend Dion and Father Jayen come down the stairs. At their approach, Pactolus sits up straighter. The look on his face is something struck between fearful and eager.

“Hello, Pactolus,” the reverend murmurs. “I’m happy to see you back where you belong. I was very disappointed when I’d seen you’d gone.”

Pactolus flinches like he’s been slapped. His lip trembles. “I’m sorry.”

The reverend brushes a knuckle over Pactolus’ forehead and the boy leans into the touch.

“The Golden Goddess has brought you back to us. She will decide whether you’re to be forgiven.”

The hand withdraws.

“We are ready to begin,” comes Father Jayen’s voice, echoing in the room. Metal shines on the table behind him.

The reverend nods and returns his gaze to the boy on the floor.

“Pactolus, you want to prove yourself, don’t you? Will you be the first to give yourself to the Golden Goddess?”

“Yes, Reverend Dion.” Pactolus’ answer is breathless.

The reverend smiles at him before addressing the rest of the children. “You will serve a noble purpose today. Ten years after her first sign, the Golden Goddess has given us you. You will help us birth the next golden era. Your sacrifice will bring the Goddess into our world and she will bring her judgement. This is no punishment, but rather the highest of honors. Know this, and be freed from your fear and pain.” The reverend holds out a hand and Father Jayen hands him a metal tool. “And you, sweet Pactolus, will be the first.”

He caresses Pactolus’ cheek, a loving gesture, Blair thinks. But no, it’s to keep Pactolus in place, a tight grip on the jaw, as Reverend Dion  _ goes for the eyes, _ and doesn’t stop as Pactolus shrieks and thrashes and claws. 

Blair’s screaming, screaming so high that she can’t be heard at all.

The tool is traded for a knife. The knife comes for Daisy’s wrists. Blair watches her struggle, watches her go down, and watches the fight bleed out of her into the bowl Father Jayen holds.

They have to do it ten times for Ty and each one is awful. Every time the reverend takes the nail and walks three steps to the center bowl and then three steps back to where Ty whimpers. Blair hears Ty try to catch his breath between each one, try to jerk from Father Jayen’s hold, try to bite the inside of his cheek, but he keeps screaming and Blair hasn’t stopped screaming since they came for Pactolus.

It’s a wrench and  _ Blair should bite down, _ but she has to open her mouth to scream as they take her first canine. Iron drips down her throat. They take the second one and something else cracks as the wrench leaves her mouth. She chokes on tooth fragment, spits up red and white and, somewhere in there, gold. She sees fingers reach in and steal it. Enamel rattles against the bottom of the bowl.

Blair lifts her head, blood and spit dripping from her mouth. Her shrieks die down to whines. The tears burn out from her and she’s sick with pain, sick with the knowledge that this is her fault. She led them here. She led herself here.

Reverend Dion bows before the bowl like it is his Goddess, his shining, golden Goddess. He bows before a bowl of…  _ parts. _

“Rise, Golden Goddess,” Reverend Dion murmurs. “Rise. You are here to be resurrected. Rise.” 

He watches for a sign, a light, a ripple in all that gathered blood. Blair watches too, hazy with agony. 

She sees nothing. 

The reverend raises his eyes searchingly in the stillness. Then, quiet, confused, “...Jayen?”

The priest is crouched over Pactolus, a hand splayed over the boy’s trembling back. He’s muttering something as Pactolus pales beneath him. As Reverend Dion’s gaze swings to the priest, Father Jayen smiles.

“Oh, Dion, you were right.” Father Jayen’s voice slides through the space like oil, slick and filthy. He lifts his hand from Pactolus and stands. “Don’t think your faith was misplaced now. Judgement Day is here.” He moves towards Ty and Daisy, brushing over the girl’s hair. “The pestilence in the east. The shadow of war on children’s playgrounds.”

Blair cringes away as he turns towards her.

“The rotting onset of famine. Death in the rivers. But the judgement is not your Golden Goddess’.”

Something is oozing from Pactolus’ wounds, those symbols on his back. Something black.

“Golden, yes.  _ Equites auream. _ ” Father Jayen chuckles as he reaches for the bowl. The reverend doesn’t stop him.

“Four golden horsemen.”

His fingers dip in and pluck out a tooth. All the noise in Blair’s throat shrivels.

There’s something in her. _ There’s something in her. _ It’s pressing out from her sternum, against the back of her bones, there’s pressure everywhere—

Father Jayen reaches into the bowl again, cupping it all in his hands—

Ty and Daisy are writhing on the floor. Blair can see something pushing against Ty’s stomach, something slipping around under the tattered flesh of Daisy’s arms—

The words carved into Pactolus’ back snap into focus, not in any human language but suddenly intelligible—

Her breastbone cracks and something with fingers pushes up between the gap—

And the fingers are holding something—

Something pressing into the palm of her hand—

Father Jayen squeezes and Blair gasps. “Don’t kill your hosts,” he admonishes. “But if you must…” He gestures to Reverend Dion.

“But that’s not fair,” Blair rasps. Father Jayen turns to her, eyes widening as the weighing scale in her hand tips to one side, heavy with rotted fruit and stale bread. “I wasn’t only called Famine. As they weighed their bread, they called me Law-Giver.” 

Father Jayen staggers back a step. The scale balances itself, though nothing is on the other side. 

“She did not want this,” Blair’s voice snarls. “So you shall not rest peacefully with her.”

Blair glimpses Pactolus lunge forward before it all turns to black as sunlight expires, leaving behind only darkness and hoofbeats. 

And in that darkness, bloodshed follows war follows bloodshed. Pestilence drags itself over the ocean. Famine devours everything and then itself. In the darkness, death floods the world.

Humanity weeps for itself, but when the Last Judgement arrives, it’s too dark to tell gold from salt.


End file.
